


If You're Under The Impression I'm Alright

by shallowlives



Category: Bandom, Cobra Starship, The Academy Is..., Waterparks (Band)
Genre: Anorexia, Canon Jewish Character, Eating Disorders, Ice Cream Shop AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:27:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27493462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shallowlives/pseuds/shallowlives
Summary: “I donotsniff the ice cream,” William insists.“Bro, you sniff the ice cream as much as I sniffed markers in middle school.”
Relationships: William Beckett/Gabe Saporta
Comments: 6
Kudos: 20





	If You're Under The Impression I'm Alright

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Neverhappyeverafter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neverhappyeverafter/gifts).



> One of my friends requested me to write an ice cream shop au with William having an ED as always and also Awsten Knight in it somewhere, so here you go, I hope you like it! :)
> 
> Also Jon Walker is the boss for no reason other than I asked another friend who should own the ice cream shop and she said, "You know who I can see having authority? Jon Walker."
> 
> **Hotlines and resources for eating disorders: https://edresources.carrd.co/**

William peels off the lid of the container and leans down, taking a long, savoring sniff. Mint chocolate-chip fills his nose. It smells good. So good.

“Dude, what are you doing?”

The sound of his co-worker’s voice causes William to bolt back upright, fumbling to yank open a drawer and grab a clean ice cream scoop to put into the new tub of mint chip so it can be set out at the counter. “Just making sure it hasn’t gone bad.”

Awsten slides the container down the metal counter to heave it into his arms. “Ice cream doesn’t go bad, man.”

“You know what I mean,” William says. “It could get freezer-burnt.”

“Uh-huh,” Awsten says very disbelievingly, as he carries the container out to the front. And then he calls out, “You got your hair in it, dude! Gross!”

“Not all of us can have green hair!”

“Still.” Awsten pops into the back again. “You really should tie your hair back before Jon says something about it.” He grabs one of the strands, tugging it to examine the length. “It’s starting to get _looong.”_

William lightly swats Awsten’s hand away. “It’s none of your business.”

Awsten, used to this sort of defensive banter, shrugs it off. “Sure. But if I find one more of your hairs in the ice cream, I’m telling Jon as soon as he comes in. So you should probably stop doing your weird thing of sniffing the ice cream.”

“I do _not_ sniff the ice cream,” William insists.

“Bro, you sniff the ice cream as much as I sniffed markers in middle school.”

Before William can think up some witty reply as he usually does, the bell at the front of the ice cream shop jingles, signalling a customer has walked in.

Immediately, Awsten groans. _“Already?_ We just opened a few minutes ago! It’s still afternoon! Bilvy, can you get it?”

William rolls his eyes, but says, “Fine.”

He walks out to the front of the store, boney hips jabbing him with pain with every step. His legs still ache from the constant routine of an hour and half of exercise every night, and the fact William always walks to work and has to stand for most of his shifts doesn’t help either. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if he actually ate breakfast, but whatever. Smelling ice cream has to provide at least _some_ kind of sustenance, right?

Standing at the counter, examining the ice cream flavors laid out, is a tall, lean man. He has a backpack, meaning he’s a college student. Because who else would eat ice cream at 11:04 A.M on a chilly September Sunday, right?

William beams his bright customer service smile. “Hi, welcome to Jon Walker’s Ice Cream. How can I help you?”

The man’s eyes flicker up from the ice cream, up to William’s smile. “I have questions,” he says unamusedly.

William continues to force his customer service smile, his enthusiastically and fakely-bright customer service voice. “Sure, what would you like to know?”

“First of all,” the man starts, and that’s when William can feel his hips jab at him again when he has to shift his stance, because he knows he’s going to be here a while. “When was your store’s kosher certification last renewed? Because I looked it up online, and you haven’t updated the kosher information section of your website in three years.”

William’s customer service smile has become stiff, and so he gives up on it, letting it drop from his face as he admits, “Um… I didn’t know we were kosher.”

The man gives him an annoyed look, and William turns toward the door to the back and calls out, “Awsten! Did you know we were kosher?”

“No!”

William turns back to the man. “Sorry, I don’t really know, but my boss should be here any moment and I can ask him about it?”

The man raises his eyebrows at him. “You _seriously_ don’t know?”

“I’ve been working here for four months at minimum wage,” William deadpans. “Cut me some slack.”

“Okay, I’ll wait until your boss comes in. Second question: do you have a list or something of the calories of each flavor? Because that wasn’t on the website, either.”

William’s throat grows dry. “Calories?”

“Um, yeah. Do you know how many are in each flavor? Or for any of them?”

“Calories,” William repeats quietly to himself, trying to summon the information to mind. There’s some binder Jon keeps in the back office that probably has it.

But the thing is, he _can’t_ think. At least, not in the way a normal person would.

A normal person would say yes and go grab the binder.

However, William can’t open his mouth to say yes, can’t force his feet to move to get the binder. Instead, he just stands there, a sudden surge of panic clawing up his chest and infecting every square inch of his body with fear.

Calories. _Calories._

He sucks in a breath without realizing it, then gasps it out.

 _Calories. C-A-L-O-R-I-E-S._ How many has William eaten in the few short months he’s been working here, small samples to sneaked sundaes?

No. No. _Nonononononono._ No.

The tips of his fingers twitch with electricity. And then everything is numb and suffocating, every inch of the bright-yellow walls and pink-tiled floor of the store so sharp and closing in on him.

William grasps for the counter, the swelling of panic crushing his lungs. His hips jab again at the sudden movement.

“Hey, are you okay?” the man asks, eyes wide, tone seeping with concern.

William nods desperately. He’s on shift, he _has_ to be okay. Deep breaths. Inhale, hold, exhale. Inhale, hold, exhale. The panic, slowly but surely, drips away, but even when it’s gone, William is hyper-aware of every single sprinkle in the topping jars, of every line criss-crossing the waffle cones.

Customer service smile. “Sorry about that,” he says, although his voice is anything but steady, trembling and laced with unease. “Um. Yeah. Sorry.”

“No, no, it’s okay,” the man reassures him. “I didn’t mean to--”

“There’s a binder!” William blurts out, maybe a little too loud and sudden, but it’s not like he can ruin everything any more than he already has. “So… uh… yeah. I’ll just go get it?”

Before the man can say anything, William sprints into the back, where Awsten is occupied by scrolling on his cell phone with one hand, the other hand holding the rag he should be using to wipe the counters.

“I think I just had a panic attack in front of a customer,” William says, and Awsten’s eyes snap up from his phone.

“Oh _no,”_ Awsten says, grimacing. “Are you okay, dude? What happened? He wasn’t being a dick, was he? Because I’ll--”

“No, it’s not his fault,” William interrupts. “It was my own thing.”

“He didn’t, like, find your hair in the ice cream?”

“No!”

“Then what was it?”

“None of your business,” William says. “Anyways, do you know where that binder is in Jon’s office? Of the nutritional facts and shit?”

 _“Nope,”_ Awsten says, popping the “p” for emphasis, and his eyes return to his phone. “Good luck finding it.”

“You’re not going to help me?”

Awsten, simultaneously distracted by texting someone, holds up his rag. “I’m busy.”

“And I just had a panic attack.”

Awsten sighs, throws down the rag, and shoves his phone into his pocket. “Fine, then I’ll go keep the customer company while you sift through all the shit in Jon’s office.”

William stares at him for a second before he decidedly says, “That’s the worst idea you’ve ever had.”

“I’m _wounded,”_ Awsten dramatically gasps. But William doesn’t stop him from ambling into the front of the store. Usually, he isn’t _awful_ at interacting with customers.

However, just as William is crossing the threshold into Jon’s office to begin the laborious task of checking the cluttered filing cabinet and piled-high desk for any sign of the binder, he begins to have regrets when Awsten calls out from the front, “Bilvy, you never said he was cute! The fuck, man?”

“Awsten, you can’t just yell that to me in front of him!” William calls back. He picks up a pile of binders that hasn’t been touched in what looks like years, causing his lungs to be affronted by the dust that clouds up when he tries to brush it away to read the label. He coughs, and somehow, that single cough makes him realize just how empty his stomach is. It growls as he coughs again.

“Nah, he’s smiling, I think he likes being called cute!”

“Most people do--” William is interrupted by a cough that comes from the depths of his lungs, all raspy and choking and hard. He has to drop the pile of binders, bracing himself against Jon’s desk as he tries to swallow back the acid he can already almost taste in the back of his mouth. Maybe it wasn’t the best idea to take the closing shift yesterday, eat nearly an entire pint of sea salt caramel ice cream, and stick his fingers down his throat mere minutes later. The scratches still adorn his knuckles.

“You okay?” Awsten calls out, noticing the sudden silence on his part.

William inhales. Concentrates on the fact there is literally _nothing_ in his stomach for him to throw up. And smiles, even though he’s alone in the office, because he is _fine._ “Yeah!”

The binders start sliding off each other, because binders are not an optimal shape for stacking, flinging up more dust into the air. William waves it away and covers his nose to keep from coughing again. This has to be against _some_ health code, but whatever. At least the binder at the bottom is the one labelled _Nutritional Facts_ that hasn’t been updated in four years, so William grabs it, brushes off the remaining dust, and hurries to the front of the shop.

However, just before he reaches the doorway, William realizes he’s never actually looked in said binder. He should have looked sooner. He should be aware of all the calories he’s eaten since he’s started working here, of every ounce of ice cream and fudge sauce that now rests in the fat of his thighs, clogs the pathways of his arteries.

Just a glance. William will only _glance_ at the binder, just to get an idea, and that will be all, and then he will hand it over for the customer to peruse. Can’t leave him alone with Awsten for too long, right?

He cracks open the binder and flips through the glossy, laminated pages until he reaches the lists of calories. One scoop of vanilla is two hundred. One scoop of chocolate is two hundred and twenty. One scoop of strawberry cream is one hundred and eighty, which William scoffs at, because he’s eaten strawberry before and still gained weight the next morning.

The numbers are precise. The numbers are measured. The numbers are exact. The numbers are right. The numbers are beautiful.

But when William adds them all up in his head, they’re too much. Terrifying. Digits upon digits.

He stops seeing numbers. He doesn’t see two hundred and fifty for mint chip, or six hundred and seventy for a medium brownie sundae, or one thousand one hundred for a mocha cherry milkshake. 

Instead, they’re pounds he could have shed, inches of fat and flesh and muscle that William will never be rid of, miles that he’ll never run, all the celery and salads he could have eaten instead.

The panic has arisen again, causing him to suck in a shudder of a breath. All the sweet oxygen in the room isn’t enough. William is already suffocating. The binder drops out of his hands, clattering to the floor, and he has to lean against the wall, the back of his head pressed against some egg-stained instructional poster about properly washing your hands.

 _Fat,_ his entire body whispers. _Fat, fat, fat. You shouldn’t have eaten that medium brownie sundae last week. You shouldn’t have drank that mocha cherry milkshake Awsten snuck for you on Friday. You shouldn’t have taken the closing shift last night and eaten a PINT (fatass) of ice cream. But at least you threw it up. That’s better than you usually do._

Awsten ducks his head through the doorway, having heard the noise, and asks, “You good?”

William closes his eyes and breathes out, “Yeah.”

Awsten eyes the binder on the floor. “Is that the--”

“Yep!” Although every square inch of his skin is still thrumming with _panic, panic, panic,_ William bends down and scoops up the binder, trying to ignore the racing of his heart as if that’ll make it go away. And he runs past Awsten, into the front of the store, and practically shoves it over the glass case to the taken-aback customer. “Here you go!”

“Oh, sweet. Thanks.” The customer takes the binder and starts flipping through, and William drops his arms and puts his hands behind his back before he can start tapping on the counter.

As William waits for the customer to make a decision, Awsten’s light tap on the shoulder spooks him, jumping and whirling to face him. Awsten flinches back at the sudden motion. “Um… are you okay?”

“Yeah!” William says, maybe a little too loudly, and he doesn’t notice the customer glance up from the binder.

“Okay,” Awsten says, his eyes searching William’s with concern, and quieter, “Because I was just going to ask if you want me to take over for you for a few minutes?”

“No, I’m good,” William says, very convincedly. “All good. Totally good. You can go back to cleaning stuff, if you want.”

Awsten is hesitant, considering William’s current state, and then shrugs. “Sure, if you say so.” He takes a cautious step backward, as if unsure to leave, before turning around and disappearing into the back.

“Hey, I have another question,” the man says, holding out the binder, and William whips back around. “Do you know how much calcium is in the ice cream? Or does the binder only have calories?”

“Let me see,” William says, and the man hands the binder back to him. He tries not to think about the calories as he flips through the pages, but the numbers surface at the top of his head no matter how much he tries to push them down. The binder is shaking, and William realizes that’s because his hands are shaking. “Um. I don’t think the binder has calor-- I mean, calcium. Just the ingredients and the calories.”

“Oh, that’s fine--” He stops, noticing William’s trembling hands. “Are you alright?”

William slams the binder shut and gives him one of his dazzling customer service smiles. “Awesome!” he says a little too enthusiastically. “Have you decided what you want to get yet or do you have any more questions?”

However, the customer’s eyes don’t move up to the menu or down to the variety of flavors. His gaze stays firmly glued on William, and he remains silent for a few seconds before whispering woefully, “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?” William asks. “You don’t have anything to apologize for, you’re fine.”

“I didn’t mean to… trigger you.”

“Oh.” William gulps. “Um. You didn’t. You’re good. I’m not triggered at all.” But as if to go against him, he can’t help but tap his thumbnail against the binder he holds. _Tap. Tap. Taptaptaptaptap_ before he has to force himself to stop.

The customer opens his mouth to speak, but then the bell at the front of the store rings. Through the door, in walks the owner of the establishment, Jon Walker, who immediately takes one look at William and chastises, “You’re not wearing the hat!”

“Good morning to you too,” William says, still straining not to tap. He digs his nails into the palm of his hand. “I forgot it today.”

“Awsten’s on shift this afternoon too, right? Is he wearing the hat?”

William is pretty sure he saw a full head of luscious lime-and-leprechaun-colored hair this morning, so he shakes his head.

Jon sighs and points at William with a grin. “Don’t forget the hat tomorrow.” William nods, and satisfied, Jon goes behind the counter and into the back to go tell Awsten the exact same thing.

As soon as the boss is out of earshot, the customer asks, “What’s all that about?”

“We have to wear hats,” William says. “They’re yellow and stupid. Like, piss-colored kind of yellow.”

The customer chuckles, and William finds himself smiling too. Although the distraction of the hat didn’t entirely remove the thought of calories from mind, at least it provides an opportunity for him to think about something else for a brief moment.

“That sucks ass,” the customer says. “I should come in tomorrow to see.”

“Even if Jon does say the store’s kosher certification hasn’t been renewed in three years?”

“Yep,” he says, and he slides the binder back over the glass case to William. “And I won’t ask about you-know-what again, either.”

 _Calories,_ William’s mind immediately supplies. _He’s talking about calories. Calories. Calories. Calories. Hey, you’re so fucking fat--_

Before the delusions can intrude yet again, William cuts his train of thought off by blurting out, “What’s your name?”

“Gabe,” he replies, and his eyes fall to William’s name tag. “So… your name is Bilvy?”

The thing is, when Awsten started calling William by the nickname of Bilvy for no apparent reason at all, Jon had thought it was funny and immediately replaced William’s name tag. _Exactly the kind of fun atmosphere we want at Jon Walker’s Ice Cream!_ he’d said, or something along those lines, which William thought was complete bullshit, because his own suggestion of replacing Awsten’s name tag with _Awssie_ was shot down. But one of these days, William will steal the label maker and give him a taste of his own medicine. Today’s just not one of those days, because William is too triggered to care.

“No, it’s just a stupid nickname. You can call me William.”

“Cool,” Gabe says, and the way he lightly smiles makes William’s heart skip a beat. “I hope to see you here at this fine establishment tomorrow, _William,_ wearing your stupendous piss-colored hat.”

William snickers and giggles, but as if trying to ruin the moment, Jon struts out of the kitchen, takes one look at William, and asks, “Did you go down a size? Your apron’s baggy.”

“It’s not baggy,” William says, even though he reaches behind his back to pull the knot tighter at his waist.

“Bilvy,” Jon says with a frown, and then his tone becomes firm. “When you’re done serving this customer, I wanna have a talk with you.”

William can only guess what he wants to have a talk about. Maybe he wants to talk about the recent weight loss, or maybe he wants to interrogate him about why the smell of vomit still hasn’t left the tiny staff bathroom. So William gives him a thumbs-up, which probably only emphasizes how stupidly skeletal it is from the way the shape of his thumb dips with the bone and absence of muscle, and Jon gives him a thumbs-up and ducks into the back just as William’s opening his mouth to ask him about the kosher certification.

“Sorry,” William tells Gabe. “I’ll go and ask right now--”

“Nah, I can ask if he’s in tomorrow morning when you’re wearing your _piss hat--”_

“Stop saying it so loud!” William hisses.

“--Sorry--because I don’t think I’ll order ice cream for myself today.”

William narrows his eyes at Gabe and leans against the counter. “So… you’re _not_ going to buy ice cream?”

“No, I am,” Gabe clarifies. “But for someone else.”

“Oh, sure.” William stands up straighter. “What do you want me to get?”

“Well, what do _you_ want to get?”

William’s jaw drops. “You’re kidding.”

“I might as well,” Gabe says. “For putting you through all that trouble. And because I feel sorry you have to wear the piss hat.”

William rolls his eyes, because by now the piss-colored hat joke thing is kinda overdone, but can’t help the smile that breaks onto his mouth. “Okay, then. Um… guess I’ll have…” He taps the counter, in thought, and then lands on, “Italian ice.”

“Italian ice?” Gabe deadpans. “Dude, that’s just sad. I’m not buying you _Italian ice._ Make a fucking sundae or something.”

A sundae sounds good. Like, _really_ good. William can already taste the warm, soft banana on his tongue, feel the thick chocolate fudge coating the roof of his mouth.

 _Calories,_ his mind immediately interrupts. William unconsciously plucks the binder off the glass case, about to start flipping through, when Gabe lays his hand on top of it to stop him, the tips of his fingers brushing against William’s.

“I know what it’s like,” he whispers softly. “I know it’s hard. But you _do_ deserve this.”

William can’t even summon a customer service smile. Instead, he swallows the lump that’s settled in his throat. “No,” he finally says. “I… I really don’t.”

“You do,” Gabe reassures him.

And William almost thinks he does. But before he can be convinced, black, fuzzy dots appear in his vision, his knobby knees caving underneath him, and he collapses to the ground.

Oh well. Maybe he doesn’t.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you guys enjoyed the fic! Even if the plot was literally just William being triggered lol. And before you ask, because multiple people have, no, I am indeed not okay, just vibing.
> 
> Twitter: @inpacithicctime  
> Instagram: @lostinpacithicctime


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